


Haul Out the Holly

by San Antonio Rose (ramblin_rosie)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Christmas Party, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, John Needs A Hug, John Reese Cooks, POV John Reese, Pie, Post-Episode: s02e13 Dead Reckoning, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27718154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramblin_rosie/pseuds/San%20Antonio%20Rose
Summary: Mid-Season 2: It's Christmas Eve, but after everything he suffered the month before, John's not feeling very merry... or very anything, for that matter. Good thing he has friends who don't believe him when he says he's fine.
Comments: 24
Kudos: 27
Collections: POI Advent 2020





	Haul Out the Holly

_December 24, 2012_

John caught himself staring out the window again.

He didn’t know why. He had things he’d meant to get done today, things he _wanted_ to do today. But Finch hadn’t called with a number; the offices of all his cover identities were closed for Christmas; and all the things he normally did in the park were canceled because of the weather. So somehow he’d sat down on the couch with his coffee… and the next thing he knew, his eyes were achingly dry because he’d gone who-knows-how-long without blinking. He wasn’t even staring _at_ anything, just… staring.

Everyone had handled him with kid gloves after Rikers and Kara. Truth be told, he’d needed it, at least until Thanksgiving. But after that, he’d told everyone he was fine, and he’d even believed it. He knew how to shake off what had happened after his arrest, and it wasn’t like he’d had any illusions about Kara or Mark or Donnelly. (Not that Donnelly had deserved to die—he’d been a good cop, a good agent—but he’d been so doggedly _wrong_ about the Man in the Suit that it had made him a threat not only to John and Finch but also to Carter and even Fusco.) He’d never been in love with Kara; he still blamed Mark for not allowing him to skip the Ordos mission and for ordering him to kill Kara and Kara to kill him; he thought he’d come to terms with the way they’d both used him and abused him the entire time he’d been with the Agency. He ought to be okay.

And yet… Kara and Mark had been _all he’d had_ while he was with the Agency, and Donnelly _hadn’t_ deserved to die, and John had failed not only to save Donnelly but also to prevent Kara from uploading that damn virus. He’d been willing to die so no one else would get hurt, but Harold had saved him (for the third time in a year and a half, which was a habit they needed to break), and there was a not-so-small part of John that wasn’t so sure that hadn’t been a failure on John’s part as well. He didn’t want not to be okay, but… dammit, he was staring out the window _again_.

He had eye drops in the bathroom, but that was too far a walk to manage at the moment. He screwed his eyes shut and pinched the inside corners against his nose to try to re-hydrate his eyes. It worked to a degree, but the tears stung as he blinked to distribute them across his eyeballs. At least that got more tears flowing.

And then his phone rang. He knew without looking who it was, sighed a little, and accepted the call.

“Yeah, Finch?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Reese,” Finch replied. “Are you busy at the moment?” As if he didn’t know.

“Nothing I can’t put on hold,” John hedged anyway. “Have we got a new number?”

“No, actually. It’s just that I’ve bought a new safe house, and… well, Bear would like to see you, and I wondered….”

John could guess what that meant, as well as the reason Finch wouldn’t come right out and _say_ he was hosting a Christmas party at the new safe house and wanted John to come. Part of him was annoyed; part of him was fondly amused.

“Where and when?” he asked, letting amusement win out.

Finch gave him the address, the door codes, and a time that gave him enough leeway to bake a pecan pie and get cleaned up. John agreed, and once they’d said their goodbyes and hung up, he set about doing just that—with a brief break between putting the pie in the oven and getting his shower because he suddenly realized he’d missed a meal or two and was hungry. The sandwich he fixed didn’t really fill him up, but that was all right. Finch was likely to have a decent amount of finger food at the safe house, if not a full Christmas dinner.

As it happened, however, John didn’t need the code for the apartment door quite yet. He caught up to Finch and Bear just as they were about to get on the elevator.

“Nice place,” John said as the elevator started upward and Bear sniffed hopefully in the direction of the pie.

“I’m glad you approve, Mr. Reese,” Finch said with that small smile he got whenever he was pleased with himself. “I hope you still think so when you’ve seen the apartment.”

John smiled in spite of himself.

At first glance, when they arrived and Finch opened the door, John thought the place looked like almost any other high-end loft: nicely constructed and maintained, if a bit industrial. But even having guessed Finch’s real reason for inviting him _here_ instead of meeting elsewhere or turning up at John’s own apartment, John couldn’t suppress a gasp as he stepped through onto the landing and saw the living and dining rooms dripping with evergreen branches, colored lights, ornaments, and tinsel. There was no mistletoe in evidence, for which he was grateful, but he was fairly sure the wreath above the mantle was made of fresh holly and spruce. Finch must have spent days, or a king’s ransom, decorating the place. The long dining table was covered in snowy linen, too, and groaning with a veritable feast, to which Fusco was adding his own contribution that looked like a plastic container of tortellini in broth.

“So what do you think?” Finch asked.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Harold,” John said honestly.

Finch beamed up at him.

Fusco looked up from the table at that point. “Hey,” he called. “Sorry I didn’t have any good dishes to bring.”

“That’s quite all right, Detective,” Finch replied. “Thank you for coming.”

“Eh, well, the Task Force party was a bust anyway, and my ex has Lee until tomorrow, so y’know.”

John and Finch both smiled at Fusco’s attempt to deflect their welcome.

“Don’t close the door yet!” Carter’s harried voice called from the hall, and a moment later she bustled in with her hands full of plastic grocery bags. “Sorry, the candlelight service at church went long, and then I had to take Taylor to Mom’s….”

“No, you’re right on time, Detective,” Finch assured her and closed the door as John ushered her down the stairs. “And also the last to arrive. Ms. Morgan sends her regrets, but several regular clients of hers are all having major events tonight, and her attendance is required at all of them. She said she’ll barely have time to get across town from one to another.”

John set his pie on the table and looked more closely at Fusco’s tortellini. “You sure that goes with turkey, Lionel?”

“Hey, you ain’t the only one who can cook, Wonderboy,” Fusco jabbed back and stuck a serving spoon in the container. Then he thawed a little and added, “My grandma used to make this every Christmas. She said it was traditional back in the old country.”

Carter leaned over to take a sniff before unloading her own dishes. “Well, it _smells_ delicious.”

Fusco brightened. “Really? Thanks, partner!”

John decided to reserve judgment until he’d actually tasted the soup, but Carter was right. It did smell good.

For her part, Carter had brought fruit salad, several jars of homemade cranberry relish, and a tub of Cool Whip to put on the pumpkin pie that Finch had apparently provided. While the men finished prepping the meal, Carter unloaded the last of her bags under the tree. Then at last they all sat down to eat—and John was astonished by how much the festive décor, good food, good wine, and good company raised his spirits and eased the dull ache in his chest he hadn’t fully realized he’d been feeling. Even the tortellini was good, and Fusco’s smile when John asked whether he’d used his grandmother’s recipe was every bit as bright as the lights on the tree. (He had, as it turned out.)

It had been ten years, at least, since he’d last had a Christmas even remotely this nice, this cozy. The year before he’d barely been aware that it _was_ Christmas, and neither he nor Finch had been in any fit state to celebrate. The year before that, he’d been trying to find a safe route out of China while nursing the half-healed wound from Kara shooting him in the gut, and in the years before _that_ , he’d been either on assignment with only Kara for company or deployed and having Christmas dinner in a mess hall with five hundred other guys. He’d almost forgotten that this kind of Christmas gathering was even possible. This taste of normalcy, of peace and joy and all the things Christmastide was supposed to be about, was almost too sweet to bear. He wasn’t sure he deserved it—not that he’d insult any of his friends by saying so.

When no one else could eat another bite, they adjourned to the living room and opened the small but tasteful gifts from Finch and Carter that were waiting there under the tree. (Carter’s gift to John was a bottle of his favorite aftershave; he was surprised she’d noticed.) And finally, as the friendly banter was winding down into companionable silence, Fusco looked around at the others and picked up his coffee cup.

“God bless us, every one,” he said as a toast.

“Cheers,” John, Carter, and Finch replied, raising their own cups, and they all drank together.

Shortly after that, Carter and Fusco collected their things and left, but John and Harold lingered by the tree. There were dishes to wash, of course, and leftovers to put away, but John had Bear’s chin on his knee, and he just didn’t want to move. What he felt wasn’t the empty, leaden dullness he’d been fighting before Harold’s call; it was more of a contented, comfortable glow, the kind that came with good food and a warm hearth and dear friends.

“I hope you don’t mind, John,” Harold said quietly. “I truly did want your opinion on the apartment as a safe house, and I wasn’t sure you’d come if I’d called it a Christmas party.”

John smiled and kept petting Bear’s head. “No, I don’t mind. I think I needed this.” Then he dragged his gaze away from the fire to look Harold in the eye. “Thanks, Harold.”

“You’re welcome,” Harold replied and got up to start clearing the table.


End file.
